After the end
by Julie Verne
Summary: Season 2 finale


After the Yosemite incident, she cuffs you and puts you in the back seat of the RV. Someone comes to get Artie, and she drives, white knuckled, all the way to the B&amp;B without a word.

She leads you through the front door and ignores the protests of the rest of her team, leads you upstairs, still not touching you, just trusting you to follow her.

You'd follow her anywhere, into the very mouth of hell.

* * *

She leads you to her room, where you'd only been once or twice at night under the guise of bringing her a cup of tea if you could hear her moving around from your own lonely room. You'd perch on the end of her bed in your night-things, and she would be somehow radiant in sweat pants and a singlet, breasts hanging loose beneath the thin fabric. She'd hand you a book and you'd lean back against the wall, sometimes reading with her until dawn.

She never said what was bothering her, what was keeping her up all night, but once she fell asleep you'd tuck her in, always hesitant before placing a small kiss on her forehead, your breath on her face causing her to stir and for you to step away.

She mustn't know what you felt for her, you'd tell yourself, because emotions were dangerous in your line of work.

You wouldn't be able to go through with your plan if she had even an inkling of what had made you put it off so long.

* * *

She leads you to her familiar room and shuts the door behind her.

She takes a deep breath as she faces you.

"Thank you for not shooting me," she says finally.

"I could never," you whisper in reply. You were ready to end the world but you could never harm her. You'd forgotten, for a moment, or put out of your mind the fact that destroying this evil world would also destroy the only decent person you'd ever met.

"I would have died anyway," she says.

"I hadn't thought of that." You look down at your still cuffed hands and she sighs.

She pushes you toward the bed, pushes you backwards by the shoulders until your knees bend and you sit down near the head of the bed. She pulls out a key, undoes one cuff and slides it around the bar of the bed instead of your wrist.

"You'll be safe here," she says and leaves the room.

She comes back in an hour with two cups of tea, made just the way you like it. You can tell she warmed the teapot first, used hot but not boiling water, and steeped it for just long enough before pouring. She even got the tiny amount of sugar and milk right.

She takes one cup for herself. She'd left a few books within reach of you so you have to put one down to drink but it is more than worth it. She sighs again.

You've disappointed her. It's the last thing you wanted, other than her destruction.

When she meets your eyes you try to convey all of this but she looks away. You look down at your tea.

"It's perfect. Thank you dar..." You start the pet name but pause. You don't deserve to call her that. "Thank you, Agent Berring."

"Today, I think I prefer darling. Look, I get it, I think. I get why you wanted to do this. Claudia told me your futile attempts at regaining your daughter in the kitchen. I can't even imagine... having to watch.. over and over... but there is good in this world."

"The only good thing in the world is in this room," you say sharply.

"You're so conceited. You're unhappy, so the world has to end?" She snaps at you.

"I wasn't talking about me," you say quietly, putting your cup of tea down on the bedside table, running your fingers over the leather-bound cover of 'In the days of things to come'.

She sighs again, running her free hand over her face.

"Helena..." she starts, then stops and just looks at you. "You don't even know what you've given up," she whispers, but you catch it. She looks away as you look up, your eyes linger on her mouth as she brings the cup to her lips. She puts her cup next to yours, sits on her bed beside you. "The Regents will have you taken away in the morning." She says calmly. "I don't know what they intend to do."

"Bronze?" You half whisper, half whimper. Her hand is on your back that very instant, it slides smooth against the Corsican Vest you still haven't taken off.

She shivers as the ghost of a hand moves across her own back, then reaches forward for your buttons.

"I don't know." She says flatly. "But you don't deserve that."

"I tried to end the world," you say, breathing in as her hands fumble their way down.

"You don't deserve that," she repeats as flatly as before. She's so uncertain, flinching every time she touches you and you realize she can feel her own hands on her own chest.

Apparently the Corsican vest doesn't just work with pain. Finally she raises her hands to your lapels, and with shaking hands she undoes the first button, then the next, then the next.

She pushes it from a shoulder, then another and it gets stuck on your cuffed wrist.

She sighs. Undoes the cuff briefly, removes the vest, then secures you to the bed once more.

She's shaken; she's shaking.

"I'm supposed to frisk you for artifacts. What else do you have?" She asks, and you nod your head to your pocket. You pull out a few objects; mere curios really, things that took your curiosity in the Warehouse and hand them to her. She walks across the room to pile them out of your reach.

"Oh, and you'd probably like my Tesla?" You ask. She looks shocked when you say this. It's tucked in the back of your pants and you know that she knows that you could have reached it at any time during the drive, at any moment in this room and made your escape.

Her eyes soften.

"Where is it?"

"Pants." You tell her, and raise your uncuffed hand. You want her to be sure you're not a threat to her. She puts her head over your shoulder, one hand under your upraised arm and gently tugs the weapon from your waistband. Her breath is close to your ear and she's so close she's almost pressed up against you.

Almost, but not quite. You'd only have to exert the tiniest bit of pressure to knock her off balance and into you, but you remain still while she fills your senses.

She smells like dried sweat a little, and the after-effects of fear, sharp and metallic.

She's only hovering over you for a few moments but you commit them to memory;something to quiet your mind in the bronze. When she pulls back, she remains close, looks you in the eye from inches away.

"Thank you," she says. "Will you try to escape if I let you shower?" And you realise you must smell of heightened adrenaline and sweat and dust as well.

"You could always supervise, to make sure I don't," you smirk, and pick up your tea.

She nearly smiles, then shakes her head, tips the last of the tea into her mouth.

"I'll let you go first, so don't use up all the water."

For a magical B&amp;B, the plumbing isn't great. You're halfway to another suggestive remark about sharing when she silences you with a single eyebrow raised.

"I'll behave," you tell her. "I won't even lock the door."

She looks away then, fumbles for the key to your cuffs. You know she knows you could over-power her easily so you don't move as she uncuffs you. You rub your wrist when she moves away; gravity has left an ugly ring on your wrist in the wake of the cuff.

Her mouth tightens and she looks away again. She pulls a towel and some clothes from her wardrobe, thrusts them into your arms.

"Your room is locked down," she says curtly. "These should fit." She pauses, then pulls some socks and underwear from a drawer. She places these on top of the rest of the clothes, then her hand hovers over her bras.

You look down at your chest, then hers.

"It's fine," you say quietly, and she closes the drawer.

She leads you to the bathroom, and closes the door behind her. You hear the shuffle of a chair being placed outside the door, and you wonder if she's trying to keep you from escaping or trying to preserve your modesty with the door unlocked.

You wonder if she's taken protection detail over you to make sure you don't escape, or to make sure no one else gets to you.

Your clothes stick to you as you remove them, and you wait until the water temperature is right before you take off your locket. You rest it on top of the clean clothes Myka has lent you, so you can put it on first.

The water feels nice, and you know Myka is spoiling you by allowing you to shower. Although there may be some self-serving to that, as she'll probably have to share a room with you tonight.

You've shared her room before, but you were both awake and aware of each other. Things have changed and you desperately wish you could go back that 23 hours and 19 minutes to change it back.

It's too late. The ink in which your lives are inscribed is indelible.

This could be the last time you're alone for a while, so you do something you're not proud of and feel deflated when you're done.

There's a knock on the door. "I said leave some water," Myka says through the door.

You turn the shower off and begin to dry yourself. You rub your hair then give up.

You look at your locket. You don't know where you're going. You put it on, one last time.

You take it off. You pull on Myka's underwear (pink, cotton, clean) and a pair of skinny jeans.

You pull your bra back on and slip one of Myka's white business shirts over it. You remain barefoot and put your dirty clothes in the wash basket.

Myka escorts you back to her room, cuffs you to the bed again. She gathers a pile of clothes and leaves you alone again. You place the locket on her bedside table, move the cups out of the way and continue reading, wet hair damping the collar of the shirt.

Myka comes back, puts some shoes on and leaves again without a word to you.

* * *

Claudia brings you supper. It's salad and cold meat, and she hovers just out of your reach with wide eyes, then darts forward to place the plate on the bedside table beside you and backs away.

"Myka's filling out her reports," she says quickly. "She should be done soon."

"I am fond of you. I meant you no harm," you say quietly. She scoffs, then looks thoughtful.

"I'm fond of you. I know it wasn't personal." She steps forward, picks up the locket. She's in arm's reach. "Joshua..." she says quietly, looking at your daughter's face.

She quickly flings herself into you for a quick, limb-filled hug, then springs back and darts out the door.

You take it she's forgiven you.

* * *

Myka comes in a few hours later, removes the plate and cups. You ask her for another book. She steps to her bookcase and pulls out some Verne. You make a face, but she raises an eyebrow and you open the book. She returns quickly, and with a glance at you, she turns her back and removes her shirt. She pulls a singlet over her head, then struggles to remove the bra beneath. She slides her pants off, replaces them with sweat pants.

She's getting ready for bed, but you're cuffed to her bed. Your heart is pounding.

She looks at you, rolls her eyes and throws a pair of sweatpants at you. It's hard to dress under Myka's watchful eye, still cuffed to the bed. But you remove and replace the pants.

"I forgot you weren't going anywhere," she says a little apologetically, "else I would have given you pajamas in the first place."

You shrug, and she uncuffs you yet again. She pulls out a singlet for you but your wrist is sore and unresponsive. She chaffs it briefly between her hands, then undoes your buttons for you. You stare her down in your bra until she hands you the singlet. You're not going through this again in the morning, so you don't even attempt to wriggle your way out of the bra.

"Where am I sleeping?" You ask, in a voice much quieter than you intended.

"Here," she says. She picks up your wrist again, rubs it some more. You try not to flinch because you thought she was never going to touch you again at some point today so you have to relish these moments that she's close and warm and alive and looking at you with concern. "I thought you'd rather have one hand free. I had to leave you restrained if I wasn't with you. I thought..."

"I could read, while I was alone. It was very thoughtful," you tell her quickly, moving stiff fingers. You can see her weigh things up for a minute, look over at the bed and the bar on it that is just too high for your hand to rest comfortably.

"Would you like to read some more?" She says quietly, because it's still early. You pick up the Verne and keep reading, sitting at the base of her bed.

When you pick up your book, it reveals the locket, resting beneath it on her bedside table. She looks at you as you step away from it. She picks it up, hesitantly, opens it gently, glancing at you now and then.

She steps over and extends her hand to you. "I've never seen you without it, even in sleep,"she says, hinting she has come into your room at night the way you go to hers.

You don't sleep anywhere near as well as she does. You're awake to feel her stare on your skin, on your face, her hand in your hair before she turns to leave.

You shake your head.

You push her hand away.

"I don't know where I'm going, if I'll be allowed any metal. I'd like to keep it safe, darling," and you know you sound pleading when you add: "and I can't think of a safer place than you." Myka swallows, closes her hand around the locket.

"I won't wear it," she says hastily, "but I'll keep it safe."

"I'd like to see you wear it, but I'll understand if you don't."

She stands there, in the middle of her room, staring at you with welling eyes.

You can't stand it. You stand up, slowly, and step into her. You bring your arms around her and she's suddenly crying.

You're the one who lost her daughter. You're the one who's going goodness knows where in the morning. You're the one who should be crying. But instead it's Myka who's crying.

"I just found you," she says finally, her voice muffled by your shoulder where her head has found refuge. Your hands wander her back wordlessly. You hadn't dared to hope, you hadn't dared to think, but this statement, this heartfelt sobbing statement makes you ache.

"I know, darling, and I'm ever so sorry."

She pulls away and swipes at her face. You step back, sit on the end of the bed with your book like everything's normal. Like you won't be gone in the morning. Like you didn't try to end the world.

Myka picks up a book of her own sits next to you. Her arms brushes yours every time she turns a page. You've been tortured before. This is worse.

Finally she closes her book. She's composed now. She picks up the handcuffs.

"I'm sorry..." she starts, but you shake your head, put down the book and hold out both hands.

You remember, briefly, the first time she cuffed you, the way you tried to prolong the contact with this woman you didn't even know back then.

Any moment you have with her is to be savoured.

She slides the cuffs on carefully and guides you to lie down. She puts your locket on the bedside table and slides under the covers next to you. Then she lifts your arms, and slides in between them and your body. You lower your arms, settle them around her rib cage as her own hands grasp at your back.

"I am supposed to cuff you if I'm not watching you," she explains, "and this way I'll know if you try to leave while I'm sleeping."

There are other ways she could have achieved this, but you don't point any of them out to her.

You just smooth her shirt down over her hips, then bring your hands over her ribs.

You can't quite believe you're holding her, that she's allowing you to hold her in her bed.

You can't quite let yourself believe the way her hands are moving across your back means anything.

Because if it does, well, you've really snookered yourself.

* * *

When Myka's finally asleep, when her hands finally stop caressing your spine, your ribs, the back of your neck, your hip bones, your hair, the patch of skin behind your ear, when her eyes have finally stopped staring at your mouth in the dim light of the room, then you throw your caution to the wind.

You're leaving in the morning, destination unknown. It's no time to be shy, but somehow you still are.

The cuffs clink a little as you hold Myka in your arms. She sighs and pulls you closer, and for a moment you think she's still awake. But she stills again, face loose and open, hands limp on your torso. This is your last chance. This is your only chance, and you regret you aren't doing this under better circumstances.

You move your face slowly toward hers and end up nuzzling your nose against hers before meeting her lips with yours. She's intoxicating, this close, and you meant to just land a gentle peck on her, an expression of what this kindness in your last hours has meant to you, what she has meant to you, the regret you feel for your actions, how you wish everything was different, but it's hard to convey all of that in just one quick peck.

You end up kissing her, and her lips are softer than you ever let yourself imagine, she tastes better than you ever let yourself imagine and it's at this moment that you let yourself be honest with how often you had imagined this.

Very.

Her mouth moves against yours, her eyes flutter but she kisses you back for a moment before they open.

When her eyes open she doesn't pull away immediately. She doesn't pull away at all. She kisses you hungrily, and you can feel all her anger and disappointment in you but you take it because somewhere in there is a little hope on both sides.

She pulls away, breathless and beautiful. Her hand caresses your face, another rests on your hip. She leans in, kisses you softly and sweetly, the way you'd imagined she would.

Then she rolls over in your arms, pulls your cuffed hands to her chest and lies motionless.

If you are executed in the morning, you will die happier than you could have believed possible.

* * *

You're uncuffed in the morning, and Myka is dressing. You catch a glimpse you aren't sure was intentional, but she looks over her shoulder and smiles as she shrugs her bra on.

You put your feet on the ground, and there's a knock on the door. Lena hands a breakfast tray to Myka, who hands it to you.

You stare at it.

You're not hungry. The full implications of your actions are clear now, and it's also clear that if you had made your move before now, it would have been reciprocated. Now, it's too late. The Regents are coming and you deserve whatever fate hands you.

But, even if you're encased in bronze, or they decide your death is in the interest of the world, you have the memory of last night to keep you warm.

If you'd just known how she felt before last night, you would have disengaged the plan.

You would have gone to her, and now you don't deserve to.

Sod time and its endless stream of causality.

Myka turns to you, and it's then you realise you're crying. She sits next to you, pulls you to her, rubs your back and makes soothingly murmurs of kindness that you don't deserve.

"If I'd just known..." you say finally. "If I'd just known that it wasn't just me... that I wasn't alone..."

"I'm sorry I never let you know," Myka says gently, "but it was rather an overreaction."

You spit out a laugh then. And she raises your face to kiss you. She's so gentle, so forgiving.

* * *

You're in the Regents' sanctuary later that day, when you reach into the breast pocket of Myka's shirt. Something's been poking your breast all day but you haven't had time to check to see if it was what you thought it was.

It's your locket. And tiny post-it reading 'you can owe me'.

You have the memories of Christina and your memories of Myka to keep you sane now.

One will make you sad, the other will bring you hope.

You wanted to end the world; she just wanted to hold you.


End file.
